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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29230725">Hammer and Nails</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomieow/pseuds/anomieow'>anomieow</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Some Vile and Tenacious Thing [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Fingering, Edging, Excess Ejaculate, M/M, Oral Sex, Prostate Massage, Public Use, Sex Pollen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:55:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,076</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29230725</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomieow/pseuds/anomieow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He considers Des Voeux coldly. He’s a little thing, whose appears even younger than he is—dark eyes, a small mouth (lips, Goodsir observes, pinked and a little swollen). Des Voeux stares back, vaguely hostile by default, and palms the hilt of the knife on his hip.</p><p>“I’ve already briefed him,” Goodsir says.</p><p>“I don’t think it’s a briefing he’s after,” Des Voeux grins, a sly sneer to his voice. “I’m to escort you personally. Armed, even.” His eyes rake down Goodsir’s body. “The lads out there’d love a soft thing like yourself.”</p><p>The sounds that Goodsir has been tuning out swim back into sharp relief: moaning, gasping, laughter. Here and there a slap of flesh against flesh or a cry of pain. He feels himself wince slightly, thinking especially of what might be done to him if the men knew he was the one to bring this bizarre affliction upon them. “I will come when I am finished with Mr. Collins,” he says, trying to sound decisive.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Charles Frederick Des Voeux/Harry D. S. Goodsir, Charles Frederick Des Voeux/Stephen S. Stanley, Henry Foster Collins &amp; Harry D. S. Goodsir</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Some Vile and Tenacious Thing [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2146371</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Hammer and Nails</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Goodsir is attending to Collins when Des Voeux enters.</p><p>“Dr. Stanley requests you,” he says. His tone is blandly insolent, as always, but his eyes are on Collins. “Fixing to have a go?” He nods toward the Second Master, who’s planted hands and knees on the rough floor of the sickbay, well-slicked and stretched. He’s a solid man, all broad shoulder and earthen thigh, and waits now for Goodsir to resume his work with the good-natured patience of a draft horse. </p><p>“No, I am most certainly <i>not</i> ‘fixing to have a go’, Mr. Des Voeux,” Goodsir says tartly, resuming the slow sawing of his fingers in and out of the man’s well-slicked fundament. He’s insulted that Des Voeux would even think as much, and besides—he’d already tried. While Collins had appreciated the effort, grinding himself back onto the assistant surgeon’s cock with that same indefatigable energy he brought to all things, it hadn’t brought Goodsir any closer to resolving his priapism. But he’d wanted to reward Collins for trying, anyway, so he’d slid three fingers in instead and scissored them wide. Collins bucked back onto his hand with a kind of joyful grunt so he continued until the man had begun to quite come apart at his fingertips. </p><p>And Des Voeux had interrupted him. </p><p>He considers the young man coldly. He’s a little thing, whose appears even younger than he is—dark eyes, a small mouth (lips, Goodsir observes, pinked and a little swollen). Des Voeux stares back, vaguely hostile by default, and palms the hilt of the knife on his hip. </p><p>“I’ve already briefed him,” Goodsir says.</p><p>“I don’t think it’s a briefing he’s after,” Des Voeux grins, a sly sneer to his voice. “I’m to escort you personally. Armed, even.” His eyes rake down Goodsir’s body. “The lads out there’d love a soft thing like yourself.”</p><p>The sounds that Goodsir has been tuning out swim back into sharp relief: moaning, gasping, laughter. Here and there a slap of flesh against flesh or a cry of pain. He feels himself wince slightly, thinking especially of what might be done to him if the men knew he was the one to bring this bizarre affliction upon them. “I will come when I am finished with Mr. Collins,” he says, trying to sound decisive. </p><p>“I’m to wait if you’re occupied,” Des Voeux says, making himself comfortable in a hammock as Goodsir returns his attentions to Collins. He walks around to the front of him and lifts his chin to get a good look at his face. His gaze is dilated and dreamy and his face is so flushed he looks nearly sunburnt. Something on his cheek and in his muttonchops catches the light—spend. Little ribbons of it. He reaches for his handkerchief.</p><p>“What a gentleman you are,” mutters Des Voeux as Goodsir carefully cleans him off. </p><p>“That’s better,” Goodsir says with satisfaction. “Find a comb and I could even bring you to the opera with me.” On a whim, perhaps because Collins is so very handsome and Goodsir is normally so very shy, he leans down and kisses him softly on the mouth, pulling away after just a moment. Collins whimpers at the brevity of the kiss but Goodsir disregards it, walking back behind Collins and gently palming the musculature of his ass. </p><p>“Magnificent creature,” he murmurs as he works his delicate fingers back into him, straightaway twisting and spreading them, seeking once again that little knot of flesh that, when stroked, sends a deluge of nervy sensation through the entire body. He knows he’s found it when Collins’ solid frame is racked by a shudder and he cries out, bucking so hard back on Goodsir’s hand that he nearly dislodges him.</p><p>“Do be careful, Mr. Collins,” Goodsir says softly, stroking the heaving, padded expanse of his ribcage with his other hand. “Don’t want to throw me, now do you?” He twists his wrist with a particular viciousness, and Collins bucks back even harder, but this time he’s ready for him, cupping his fingertips to press right onto his prostate. Hard. A low moan and a curse dribble from his lips as he lets all his weight sag down. </p><p>“There we are,” he says softly, feeling his mouth quirk into a small smile. </p><p>His hand creeps down to his flies. He’s chapped red from useless frigging all afternoon and now winces as he works his trousers down just enough that his cockstand bounces free. He steps sideways and in toward Collins, cosseting himself between his own belly and the meaty dint where Collins’ buttock flows into his thigh. </p><p>“Why don’t you just stick it in?” Des Voeux asks from a distant, drifting periphery. He glances over his shoulder at him in the hammock, prick in hand and one leg dangling over the edge, and something in him thaws toward him. He’s not an unattractive young man, just insolent—and there might be some delight in curing him of that. A vision flashes through his mind of Des Voeux humping against his fingers, eyelids fluttering—and then, at the very last moment before his crisis, he might withdraw his hand, and resume only if begged. The thought excites and repulses him at once, so he turns his attention back to Collins, beginning to grind his own cock gingerly into the meat of his upper thigh and buttock in rhythm with his plunging fingers. Collins rocks hard against him, head thrown back. </p><p>Goodsir is aware of Des Voeux’s eyes on him, on the thrusting of his fingers, and his pace quickens too, fucking up into his fist and huffing brokenly. Something about it, his visibility and his power in this moment—<i>he’s</i> doing this to Collins, <i>he’s</i> doing this to Des Voeux—something about how deliciously solid the sweat-slicked body of Collins is against him, how the little cave of slick heat between his belly and Collins’ thigh feels almost like the inside of a <i>cunt</i>; the word is unspeakable but he says it—says it aloud, in fact, telling Collins all about how beautiful his cunt feels around his fingers, all grasping and greedy as he strokes his prostate mercilessly—and then Collins, with a strangled shout, goes bolt stiff as he comes, and Goodsir follows him over. They (and Des Voeux, moments later) spend extravagantly, brilliantly, in great stuttering gushes by far exceeding in volume and intensity the climax of any little frig Goodsir has ever given himself. </p><p>After several seconds he’s coated Collins’ thigh and the length of his own prick, creating a sumptuous slickness to hump into, but it just keeps coming. It feels like a good minute before it slows and fades and he’s left feeling boneless, wrung out. But still hard, still craving. He steps back carefully so as not to slip in the pool of spend he and Collins have made, and turns to Des Voeux. Des Voeux is panting, eyes wide. There’s no insolence about him now. </p><p>——</p><p>“I might have known you’d be distracted.” Stanley’s voice cuts through the contented din of the sick bay—able seaman Best’s murmured praise for Collins as he grinds into him from behind, the rhythmic squeak of the exam table beneath Des Voeux’s weight. For a moment, Des Voeux is distracted, worried (not that he’d ever let it show) that Stanley might be jealous, for his mouth has belonged to Stanley for months now. Well. It’s not his mouth Goodsir’s fiddling with but rather he’s got his fingers knuckle-deep in him, stroking and twisting. It’s a swelling, nervy sensation but he likes it and tries to ride it out, having come close to coming more than once only for Goodsir to withdraw his fingers, head tilted, a scrutinizing look in his eye. Once so breathlessly close that Goodsir had performed some kind of terrible magic with his thumb at the base of him that just held him in a state of scalding bliss, almost like he had to piss, before slowly subsiding. </p><p>By the time Stanley arrives, Des Voeux is feverish and heavy-limbed, somehow euphoric and frustrated at once. He’s too exhausted and his brain too scrambled to form words. He turns to look at Stanley—<i>Fuck, he’s handsome</i>—but Goodsir brings his attention back to him with a tug to his chin. </p><p>“I summoned you at least forty-five minutes ago,” Stanley says, stepping closer. But he doesn’t sound as angry as he might. “Turn him over,” he orders Goodsir, nodding at Des Voeux. “I’m sure you can keep doing—whatever are you doing, Mr. Goodsir? Prostate massage?”</p><p>Goodsir nods and withdraws his fingers, then pats Des Voeux’s hip to signal him to turn onto his belly. Des Voeux is distantly aware of the indignity of it, of being handled like a side of mutton and, furthermore, his stones and stiffened prick and the plundered gape of his asshole visible to whomever might stroll in, but he doesn’t care right now. He just wants Goodsir’s deft fingers inside of him again and Stanley down his throat. Stanley feeds him his prick and he tastes fresh spend, and wonders who’s done such a shoddy job of cleaning him off.</p><p>“Everything but the mouth on this one,” Stanley says almost conspiratorially, “is a waste of space.”</p><p>“If all you have is a hammer…” Goodsir replies, wringing a gasp from Des Voeux. “You might have come earlier.”</p><p>“My, but you’re feeling grand about yourself,” Stanley says, but there’s a warmth in his tone that Goodsir finds, no doubt, unfamiliar. Des Voeux wants to turn and see his face, only for a moment, but he can’t tear his gaze away from Stanley’s, who in these moments surrenders some of his sharpness to Des Voeux’s deft ministrations. He often strokes his hair and tells him he’s a <i>good boy</i>, which Des Voeux pretends to detest, sometimes giving a little scrape with his teeth—this sometimes earns him a snarl and a yank to his hair, sometimes a sharp little deepening to his thrust. Right now he’d love it more than anything for he <i>is</i> a good boy, isn’t he? At least good for this. Excellent for this. He’s also curiously desperate to please Goodsir, though he’s not sure what it is he wants from him. This whole time he’s been brisk, indifferent, regarding him rather like one of his specimens. He’s odd, that one, off, but at this moment he’s grateful for him, or at least for those quick strong fingers inside of him working their weird, intense magic. </p><p>Later he’ll feel humiliated by the memory of thus. Later he’ll make Goodsir and Stanley both pay. Maybe not Stanley, actually, because he makes Des Voeux’s blood tremble always, always, always; he makes him feel like a stupid teenager, all tenderness and hot hope and it <i>stings</i>, because he knows that all his small tendernesses are really directed at Mrs. Stanley, for whom his mouth is a shabby proxy. At least, that is what he tells himself. That is what he assumes. For if there is even a trace of genuine feeling for Des Voeux in Stanley, it would consume them both. Better to leave it; better to assume one’s bitterness is warranted. </p><p>They’ve been talking over him without his even listening and now Stanley takes him by the chin and gazes searchingly into his eyes.</p><p>“Mr. Goodsir is going to let you come,” he says mildly. “Can you be a good boy and keep on task all through it?”</p><p>Des Voeux nods and strains to nest his nose in the dark gold curls at the base of Stanley’s cock. He wants him in all the way, as far as he can—</p><p>—but then Goodsir grabs him hard by the prick, rubs his warm palm up and down the length of him in rhythm with his fingers, and almost instantly he’s coming, filling the space between his belly and the table. It is the brightest and purest thing he has ever felt, hot as sun, and for a minute he can’t remember the shape of himself. He’s dimly aware of Stanley tugging at his hair, trying to hold his gaze, and he looks—pleased, somehow, Stanley does, proud; and he <i>wants</i> to look at him, he does, but his eyes keep rolling back into the flickering dark of his head. Then there’s a brief, warm, cradling nothingness before he feels the first ribbon of Stanley’s spend hit his cheek.</p>
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